The Same Book, Twice

Giving someone a second chance is like reading the same book twice — you already know how it ends.

But let’s be honest — we don’t give second chances because people deserve them.

We give them because we hope the ending might magically change. That maybe this time, the character who stabbed you on page 173 might decide not to twist the knife on 174. That maybe they’ll read the pain they caused you and decide to rewrite their part.

Newsflash: they don’t.

People don’t rewrite their roles just because you forgave them. They play it better. Smoother. Quieter. Cleaner. But the plot? That damn plot remains the same.

I gave them a second chance.

Why? Because I thought love meant patience. I thought maturity was about forgiveness.

But all I did was reopen a door I had already slammed shut — and this time, they walked in wearing guilt like perfume. Apologetic eyes. Careful words. A practiced script.

They said things would be different.

And they were.

They lied better. Hid things deeper.

They hurt slower, but deeper.

This time, I didn’t bleed.

I rotted from within.

Second chances are not about redemption — they’re about repetition.

You’re not building something new. You’re patching a broken pipe with hope and watching it leak again. And again. And again.

People don’t change overnight.

They evolve only when it suits them. And most of the time, they come back not because they love you — but because they miss the comfort of your forgiveness.

Giving them a second chance?

That was me betraying myself.

Not them.

This time, I read the book knowing every twist. I saw the betrayal coming and still let it happen. That’s the cruel part — not what they did to me. But what I let them do — again.

So no — I won’t reread that story.

No matter how familiar the words feel.

No matter how warm the chapters once were.

Because I deserve a better ending.

One I don’t already know.

One I write myself.

Burn the book.

Let the ashes be your closure.